Not myself
by KrissyRocksOutLoud
Summary: "'England. That's funny. Don't you see? I'm not a nation, just a country.' He laughed at England's confused look. That was funny because of course he wouldn't get it. No one else did because they were nations." Based off a line in a story on the kink meme
1. Reassurance

America smiled as the blood ran down down down his arm. The pain and relief flooded over him, assuring him. 'This is real. I'm real. Real, solid, alive. Alive, I'm alive.' He closed his eyes, relaxing backwards as everything but sensation, _pain, happiness, truth, assurance, bitterness_ fled from his mind, leaving behind only proof. Proof he is himself. He watched as the blade sliced sliced sliced _not a sound made only his breathing echoing around_ through not only his skin, but previous wounds, failed attempts to assure himself that he wasn't going to disappear, that he wasn't going to just vanish one day. He could hear the drip drip dripping of his blood on the tile, music to his ears. The sound of his life _his life HIS life_ circling around him. But what he failed to hear was the knocking on his door, a familiar voice calling his name.

He always made sure to do this in the bathroom, this quest to find his existance. He had once foolishly done this in the bedroom. It took him a week to convince England that he had just spilled cranberry juice on his carpet, that he hadn't in fact sat there for hours dragging paper across the pads of his fingers, watching the blood roll down his hand and drip drip drip on the oh so clean carpet. The carpet that had mocked him with it's pure colour, the carpet that didn't have to prove it was real because you could feel it on your feet, on the sole of your foot, rubbing and tickling and sending sensations up up up your body to tell you 'Hey! I'm here!' to tell you that it was _real_ and it was _there_ and--

Suddenly, he was looking into green green green eyes that stared into his soul. Green eyes that were usually so full of love and compassion but right now were filled with concern and anger and a hint of curiosity.

"Alfred?" and it was so so _so_ full of emotion that America knew. Emotions that he was no stranger to because he felt them _felt them_ all the time, that part of what he was doing, right this minute, was to find these emotions, to hide from these emotions, to discover what these emotions really meant. He realized that England was saying something _the pitch of his voice washing over America and soothing him even more than the blood flowing from his arm _was currently asking America something that fell on his deaf ears. Ears that only heard that of his dripping blood and the emotion swirling in England's voice. "Alfred, are you listening? What are you doing?"

"Nothing." The biggest lie and the most honest truth was never told.

"This," He held up America's had for emphasis "is not nothing. What do you think this will accomplish, you idiot? Why are you even doing this?"

He smiled up at England. He didn't _kno_w. He didn't under_stand_. "Proving I'm me." All he received from that was a blank stare. And oh that stare was so so so inviting that he just had to tell him. That this _this _was im_por_tant. That without this, America Alfred Al was liable to just disappear off this earth.

"Did you think this would kill you?" Why wasn't England listening? "You're a nation, this couldn't possibly--"

America let out a loud loud laugh. Too loud and too too inappropriate for the situation. "England. That's _funny_. Don't you _see_? I'm not a nation, just a _country_." He laughed at England's confused look. That was _funny_ because of course he wouldn't get it. No one else did because they were nations. "You don't see, do you? No. No one sees. I'm not _me_. I'm everyone. I'm not a nation. I'm all the nations. All all all the nations _worst_ bundled into one tight tight tight package. 'Give me your _tired_, your _poor_, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched _refuse_ of your teeming shore. Send these, the _homeless_, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'" He laughed again, high pitched and delirious _no no no not delirious, he was crazy crazy crazy_ with happiness. "I'm not a nation. Ask any of my 'children'. No no no, I'm not a _nation_. Ask them what their citizenship is, what _country_ they're from and they'll say 'I'm from America, I'm American.' But ask them, just _ask_ them what their _nation_ality is and they'll say 'Oh! I'm German, I'm British, I'm French, I'm _Russian_.' There's no _American_. There are very very very few _Native_ Americans left and those are getting so so small." He pressed a kiss _I need help please please oh god help me_ to England's forehead.

"I'm everyone. Don't you see? I'm made of the whole wide world! My people come from countries all over the world. Even some of my first first first people! They were from you! And even after that, they all came from somewhere. Russia, China, Poland. Slaves from Africa. All of them! Even the revolution wasn't mine. They weren't my ideas. They were Rome's peoples' ideas. Socrates, Plato. And John Locke! He was _French_. My government was Rome's. Even my best best best weapon isn't mine! It's Germany's and not even one of "my people" were the one to give me the information. One of Germany's own told me. _Germany's_. Am I even myself? Is my hair mine or is it France's? Are my eye's mine or Germany's? My work ethic mine or yours? My height mine or Russia's? Is my personality even mine or is it borrowed from Italy? My language isn't even mine. All I am is a _country_ born of _borrowing_."

He smiled at England's disbelieving look but he knew that his lover understood, that he was truely listening to him. That what he was saying _all of his deranged thoughts that he shouldn't be bothering his loved one with_ was actually being heard. "That's why I have to be the hero. Don't you _see it_? Do you _see_ it now? I have to save the world because I _am_ the world. I am am _am_. Don't you see? If the world was to end except for me, they would all leave me. All my citizens that aren't truely mine. They would go "home" and I would be left with nothing. I have to save them to save _me_. If I don't save the world, who will save me?" England embraced him at that, a muttered "I would" unheard by the delirious nation he was embracing.

"You know it's true. It's true true true. Because you were there. You were there when the twin towers were hit. When they fell down down down. You know that I cried but between the sobs and the pain, I was smiling. I was smiling and laughing and _happy_. And do you know why? Do you know? Because I felt them, I truely felt them. My people. They were really mine. I could feel their pain and their grief and their heartache. They were _my_ people. But now? Now, now they are all going their seperate way. They're all about themselves and their heritage. They're growing away from me. Away and away and they don't even like me anymore. What if they don't need me? They don't need me now but what if they truely _don't_ need me? Will I still be here? What'll happen to me? I'm only here because a bunch of people from all over the world, every everywhere came here. But if they leave, they _leave_ me, then am I me? Who am I?" He was sobbing into England's shoulder by now and all England could do was embrace him. There was nothing to say because really, it was mostly true. But what he couldn't see was what he really was. A dream and a hope to those who left their "homes" and came to this "nation" so that they could be happy and free. While some may say that they hate their nation, deep down everyone feels pride for their home. So, is some ways, America was correct. But what England was determined to show him was that he was his own person, that he did have his own people and that England loved him, not everyone he was supposedly made of.


	2. The white soft, cold carpet

America watched disinterestedly as England gathered some stuff and started to clean and wrap his wounds. It didn't matter what he did, in about a week he would be doing the same thing again. He needed to do this and he understood. Understood that Arthur didn't understand. When the bandages were wrapped and England saw that he was safely in bed, he was left alone while the other went to get his stuff. After a few minutes of staring emptily at the ceiling, he slid out of bed onto the floor.

He slid his hand slowly, ever so slowly over the carpet. It might be stupid, stupid, oh so stupid to say, but out of everything in the world, every nation, country, person, or thing, this carpet was the one he hated the most. Oh, how he hated the pure _pure_ white _innocent_ carpet. He smiled as he glanced at the dark brown _not brown, red red red from the blood dripping down his arm_ corner. The one blemish on the perfect carpet. The one stain on the innocence that ruined the whole thing. With that one stain sitting there, the carpet was no longer oh so pure and perfect and everything he wasn't. It was just like him, stained and ruined and dirtied.

The carpet was so so so white _like freshly fallen snow_

It was so soft under his hand, soft and white _and cold, oh so cold melting under his hand but how was that possible when he felt so so cold himself_

He felt a smile blooming on his face as he glanced at the corner again _and saw the red red blood, all that blood, everywhere, dead bodies littering and destroying it with their pretty pretty red blood. _

He lifted his hand to his face and saw a brown glove _brown and big big big leading down to the tan tan coat sleeve_

And he laughed, laughed so loud, and so so hard that tears came to his eyes _but no they weren't tears, they were tears of red red so preciously red blood_

Soon though the laughter turned into sobs. Hard and breathtaking because _he had killed them, his children were dead and it was all __his__ fault. He __was__ the one that shot them afterall_ because he knew, he really did, that he was going insane. And he didn't want to. No no no because then England wouldn't _love_ him anymore and if he wasn't insane already, he definitely would be then. If he didn't love him, love him forever and ever with all his heart _if he left like they all left, left him alone in a house too big and too cold for only one person to live in_ then he would surely die.

England was already mad at him _scared because he didn't know what to do when this sorta thing happened_ about what he has been doing. But but but that was just to keep him alive _breathing and sure that he wasn't made out of snow_ imagine what he could do if he wanted to die, die die die! Another laugh tore from his throat _echoing around him as the gun shot had seconds ago, as the screams of pain had, because he didn't want bad children_ as he thought of it. He could be dead and so so cold _just like the snow surrounding him_ with just one shot _one bang of the gun and their bodies were falling to the ground, pleasure and pain filling his body._

Suddenly, the door was open and his lovely bird was sitting in front of him again, asking him questions, so many questions _why are you doing this, what have we done, we want peace _ but he ignored them because they weren't important. Only his bird, ever there to bring the pretty pretty music into his life. He launched forward and kissed him, and everything faded away, the white carpet,_ the cold snow,_ the brown stain, _their fading screams, _his body. It was just him and his his his England. When they separated, England pulled him back onto the bed and he smiled. Smiled because he still loved him and that was all he needed right now. Later, he would need the reassurance of a blade, he laughed as_ happiness is not a warm scalpel_ floated through his head, England shooting him an odd look, but right now as the snow melted away and left only them in his room, this was all he needed. _He looked out the window to see the dead bodies scattered out in the barren wasteland, staining the pure snow with their red red blood that was quickly turning brown. But soon, it was already happening, the fresh snow would cover them up, cover up the stain on its innocence like it had never happened. But he could never do that. His would change from a bright red to a dark brown and would fester, fester there forever until it rotted him from the inside out. He felt so cold but he could never be the snow._

A/N: S-sooooooooo. I hope you enjoyed? Ah-ahahaha. This one came out kinda weird (aka creepy). I hope you got who I was referencing in the italics. I wasn't planning on making a part two but so many people liked it and a few people requested more so I felt like I should. The beginning was difficult because I didn't plan on more happening. Sorry England, you came out kinda irresponsible in my opinion. I don't really like the beginning but the second paragraph is one of my favourites...That's a common theme here isn't it? Hahaha it's always the carpet chapter. I have a secret love of it, I think. Or maybe it's the symbolism? Well this is getting long and I'm sure it's pretty TL;DR so I'll stop now. Maybe there'll even be a third part. Who knows. Review with some ideas and I'll think about it.

PS. I thought I made it pretty clear but incase you didn't get it, it was a comparison-like thing between America and Russia. Russia's thoughts are the italics from the third paragraph on. Hahaha who caught the Repo! the Genetic Opera reference? :3

PPS. ...This has been sitting on my computer, completed for...a week or something. Why didn't I post it? Your guess is as good as mine. I think it was because I wasn't happy with it...or maybe because I didn't know if I was finished with it or not? Oh well. Here it is now.


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